When there's a one-shot there's a way
by eyebrow-extravaganza
Summary: A soon-to-be collection of one-shots and drabbles for Homestuck. Expect stereotypical Starbucks meetings and more! Multiple pairings, more info inside.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Ok, so my fic collection was looking a little bland, what with having a new account and all. So, I decided to upload a couple of one-shots and drabbles for Homestuck that I've written over the past few months! This won't be updated too regularly, but there should be around 5+ one-shots by the end. Maybe. I just thought I ought to upload the ones I have so far, as I quite like them although they are just little mini-stories. Don't expect continuations of any of them, although I may do if I have the time.  
There'll be mult****iple pa****ir****ings throughout th****is set, so beware of that ****if ****it's not your th****ing. Although I doubt there'll be more than 1 pa****ir****ing w****ith****in each one-shot, and there may not be any ****in some**.

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**So without further ado, here's one-shot #1 - Finding a job, with your hosts humanstuck!Karkat and humanstuck!Gamzee. T****ime for some brotherly lov****in'.** Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: Nah, bro. Homestuck ain't mine.**

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==Be the fuckass douchebag.

You are now the fuckass douchebag. It is you. And what are you doing? Well, you're making an admittedly valiant attempt at coercing your equally fuckassed 'friend' (in the loosest form of the word) into actually stop being high off his ass all the time and get a job.

Not that you're doing a very good job of trying to get him a job. Actually, _you_ could be spending time trying to get a job yourself instead of setting yourself this impossible task of getting your pothead acquaintance employed. But where's the challenge in that?

You reach forward, knocking his large, spindly hands off the pathetically small keyboard set before him as you take control of the public library's computer. What's even more pathetic is that the keys are a stretch for your stubby fingers to reach, but you try not to be too pessimistic (you fail), and glue your eyes to the screen smeared with public use and age.  
"What the fuck? Gamzee, this isn't a job application site."

He looks down at you dozily, eyes lidded and eyebrows furrowed. His greasepaint makeup is smeared sloppily around his eyes, the appearance of a clown etched onto his drowsy features. You think it makes him look even more of a douche than he would without it, but it seems to make him happy so you usually let it slide. He gives you a lazy grin before answering.

"Oh, was that what I was supposed to be all up and doing? Sorry motherfucker, I found this site all about motherfuckin' cats - miraculous, right brother? So I had to all up and get my know on about all these little motherfuckers, and I found out some crazy shit! Cheeseburgers, man, motherfuckin' cheeseburgers!"

Your hand finds its way to your forehead, short, chewed nails scratching their way down your furrowed features. With a restrained sigh, you close the Funny Cat Video site and hastily fumble with the (too spaced apart) keys while you glare ice shards in his general direction.

"Fuckweed, this is the site you're supposed to be on," you growl, thrusting a hand towards the newly addressed screen. He feigns innocence, bless his little fucked-up clown soul, slender fingers smeared with face paint reaching for the screen as he reads the information.

"Aw, bro, this site is motherfuckin' boring. No colours and shit. What's a brother all up and doing changing my miracle website to this?" he pouts almost childishly, and you are most certainly _not_ feeling guilty about it. Nope, not you.

"We're here to get you a job, clown-piss-for-brains. The colours don't fucking matter."

"A job? Now why would a motherfucker all up n' need a job?" He's genuinely confused now, scratching behind his ear as dark brown hair curls messily over his angled hand, and you want to claw your face again in frustration.

"You arsewipe, I've explained this to you at least twenty fucking times! Do you want to run out money, shitstain? We're on a loan, which means our supply of fucking money will be _gone_ sooner than later - and as much as I hate you until the ends of the earth I don't want the guilt of having you homeless clawing at my soul for the rest of my life."

"But brother, surely you'll be all wanting to up and get a job as well?"

Ah. There it is. The taboo question.

"Fuckwit, nobody would ever even_ think_ of employing me! What is wrong with your rotted, face paint infested mind!?" you hiss, trying not to feel a stab of guilt at his hasty flinch. His face drops a second later into an easy smile again, and he pats your shoulder consolingly despite your livid expression.

"Naw, bro, if they'd hire _me_ then of course this miracle company will hire your mirthful self!" he cheers, and you scowl and bat his hand away as your eyes blaze.

"I am not 'mirthful', shit-clown," you mutter, but allow him a brief, reluctant smirk.

You still couldn't get a job though. You could just see yourself at an interview, swearing at the interviewer and flipping off the colleagues as you went. It isn't your fault that you have 'social issues', per se - but try telling that to your psychiatrist! At least, she _was_ your psychiatrist until Gamzee came in one session... And she decided you were beyond help with a friend like that.

"So brother... What sort of job am I gonna be all up and getting myself in for?" His voice worms its way through your thoughts, splicing them into shards and making you scowl as you turn to him again. You try to ignore the rapidly emptying state of the library - it doesn't shut until 4pm, you remind yourself determinedly, you still have time to get this fuckass employed.

"I don't fucking know, why don't you go and ask the miracle prince of work?" you grumble under your breath, flicking through the list of jobs available in your area with hasty cursor clicks. It'll be a difficult task to get this stoned, clown-religious freak employed and to actually keep his job - but it will still be a much easier task than it would than _you_ trying to get into the world of employment.

"Hey brother, what about that one?" He's pointing at grey, monotonous writing, the tip of a claw-like nail lightly scratching the grimy screen as he leans forward. The light from the monitor shines onto his face, and you try not to dwell on how the light pooling in his eye sockets accentuates the dark bags and makeup, making his clown features appear more akin to a skull.

"What is it? It'd better not be some sort of fuckass -"

"It's a motherfuckin' janitor, my brother, at the place where kids all up and get their learning on." He grins at you, all coquettish dimples and lidded eyes, and you send a scowl in return.

"Oh yeah, that's definitely your dream job," you intone sardonically. "Surrounded by grotty, innocent kids 24/7, having to keep yourself from swearing and wearing clown paint and having to stay sober to protect their 'naivety' - yep, that sounds fucking perfect!"

His expression drops. "Wait, so a motherfucker has to stay sober?" He's frowning now, rubbing his cheek and smearing the face paint.

You roll your eyes. "Well, yeah. Fuckass, they won't let a druggie walk around kids! That's like... a public offence, or some shit."

"Aw, man, but you know what I'm like when I'm fully sober... Those little motherfuckers wouldn't like that at all," he mumbles, and your brow furrows slightly in concern. You haven't really experienced his sober side before as he always vacates the area beforehand, but you figure it's a pretty serious situation.

"Exactly my point, shitstain," you growl, tapping his hand away from the screen so he doesn't scratch it with his shitty sharp nails. "You can't expect to get a job that needs you sober - you'll get fired within 5 minutes."

"But brother... That's the only job left that doesn't need no big qualifications."

You sigh, dropping your face into your palms. He really needs a job; you need a steady run of money coming in to share your flat, and seeing as you getting hired is not a possibility...

"Fine," you growl, and you know you're gonna hate past you in about 5 seconds. "You can apply for the job. And you can lie, and say you're fucking sober, and I'll just spout some shit about medication and we'll get you your fucking job. Got it?"

...Wow. Past you is a jackass. You really want to slap that guy right now.

You try your hardest to ignore the beaming clown face opposite you, and instead concentrate on thinking up a plan as to how to pass the dopey idiot you're with as sober. It will be no easy task - he's got that constant half-lidded, red-rimmed eye stare that just screams 'I'm high as fuck', not to mention that he smells of the smoke he consistently inhales.

Well, you can do something about that.

"You can stop smoking though," you snap in a moment of clarity.

He turns to you with mournful expression. "Aw, but that ain't fair!" he mopes. "You smoke all the motherfuckin' time my brother... I'm not all up and quittin' if you ain't!"

You send daggers his way. "Yeah, and_ I'm _not giving up my happy place because my fucked up roommate needs to earn some fucking money!"

"I'm still thinkin' you should all up and get a job, my brother."

"...Gamzee?"

"Yes, my best of all friends?"

"Shut your fucking clown mouth."

Gamzee just grins at you.

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**A/N: Because I can't help but write about sweet stoned Gamzee, even if he is being a royal fuckass to poor Terezi in the latest updates.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Aaaaand we're back. Here with another Homestuck one-shot, it's a Starbucks scene starring Gamzee and Tavros. Oh, GamTav, you will be the death of me.**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Story's mine, characters ain't.**

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_== Be the doped up clown._

This is the fourth time this week you've seen him.

He's sitting there, just like the other three times, face buried in a coffee cup and one hand clutching the steaming drink while the other clings to the arm of his leather seated wheelchair. His fingers are long, tanned and slender, and you want to pry them away from their grip on the sturdy armrest and entwine them with your own bony appendages. His hair is flopped forwards over his features, brown strands falling over the rim of his cup and obscuring the finger tapping a nervous rhythm on the edge of the cup's heat protector. His hair also covers his eyes, a hint of cautious caramel peeking out from behind the strands every few seconds - and not-so-sneakily hiding the fact that he's watching you like a hawk.

Again, for the fourth time this week.

You hide a grin with your own steaming mug, chuckling discreetly into your mocha and watching his every movement from behind your mane of curly dark hair. It's a funny game, this watching-each-other-surreptitiously thing the two of you have going on, and although you're used to getting obnoxious stares there's something different about this guy - something endearing. He's trying so hard to make it look like he's not staring, but his gaze is set on you firmly, checking you out with that wary, nervous gaze - and you can't help but smile.

He's motherfuckin' cute.

At least, he seems to be, even though all you've seen so far of your shy guy is a hint of tan skin and large, dark eyes.  
You really need to do something about this. Maybe this time, you'll wait for him to leave before you do - after all, it's your day off and watching this kid scope you out surreptitiously (or so he thinks) is certainly a good way to pass the time.

You look up from your cup briefly, brushing back your tangled mess of hair from your decorated features and relish in the slight shine of interest behind his floppy mohawk. He's seen your mirthful paint disguise before, but it seems to surprise him every time and you're more than happy to oblige his interest. Of course, it means you have to deal with the rest of the public in Starbucks, but you figure it's worth it if it captures he kid's attention.

Which it certainly seems to have done, if the gormless and adorable stare from behind the cup is any proof.

You want to smile at him. You don't.

You figure good things come to mirthful motherfuckers who wait.

You hear a child's voice nearby, and try to resist the urge to bury your face again in the comforting warmth of your coffee. Nah, a motherfucker's gotta stand up for himself, right?  
Plus, you're all up and getting your warm chill on from the way your coffee crush is still staring at you.

However, the moment fades when predictably, there's a questioning gasp from beside you.

"Mummy, why is there a clown here?"

Motherfuckin' nosy kids.

You swing your head round carelessly, a menacing stare slipping onto your painted features as you glare at the small girl currently pointing at your face. Normally, you'd go for a more relaxed approach to the little'uns, but it's been a long, tiring day and you just want to focus on one coffee kid. Is that too much to ask for? Apparently so.

"Hey l'il motherfucker, how's about you don't go stickin' your nose where it don't motherfuckin' belong?" you growl, twisted corners of your mouth sticking to your painted features. Her eyes widen in horror at your ragged expression and harsh tone, and she hurriedly shuffles backwards, hiding her face in her mother's jacket with a choked sob. Good. She'll leave you alone now.

You turn back to the shy kid, taking a lazy sip of your coffee and licking your lips languidly. His eyes follow your movements, dark and wide and earnest beneath his chestnut hair, and you feel a sense of satisfaction - even though the little girl is now crying beside you and oh,_ how predictable_, her mother is stalking towards you. Great, now you have to look away from your coffee kid,_ again_.

"Hey, sis. What's all up and bein' your problem, 'cause I'm a bit busy at the mo-"

"You swore at my baby!" she hisses. "You scared my little girl, you freakish clown cultist!"

A sigh escapes your mouth, slipping between your painted lips along with the sweep of a tongue. "Look, I ain't trying to start a fight, sister, but I don't appreciate your kid starin' at me like some zoo exhibit..."

You've attracted a small crowd by now, the coffee shop residents nearby glaring at you in disapproval and the young barista throwing you worried glances now and then.

"And how do you expect her not to when you paint your face with such a garish intent like some insane clown posse enthusiast?" the mother snaps, sharp nail prodding into the side of your cheek as she unceremoniously bursts your personal bubble and oh, that's motherfucking IT.

You stand up with an almost animalistic growl, hair flopping over your narrowed eyes and a snarl etched onto your painted smile, and sloppily pick up your few belongings. The bitch mother looks triumphant, albeit slightly intimidated, and you hope she's happy because you sure as fuck are not. So much for your chances of waiting for your coffee kid. You sweep out of Starbucks with a snarl and you admit you must look quite the sight, a towering 6ft clown with polka dotted pyjama pants and an expression of murderous intent twisting your features. You don't even glance behind you as you leave, hands clenching and un-clenching into fists as you try to control your frustration.

You need to take your meds.

Suddenly, there's a scuffle behind you, and you hear a small shout. What, are they _still_ not done harassing you? Motherfuck. You spin around again as a hand touches your sleeve, ready to rip this motherfucker's head right off their pathetic should-

Oh.

The coffee kid looks up at you worriedly from his place seated in his wheelchair, eyes wide and brown and worried and /motherfuck/, is he adorable, and do you feel guilty for nearly beheading him just then.

"You, uh, left your coffee, and I thought you might, um, want it... And I was, well, also wondering if you were, you know, ok?" he stutters.

Your heart twists painfully while your brain takes its _sweet_ time thinking up an appropriate response.

"...Whu?"

Okay, so point for Gamzee, now you sound like a gormless stoner. Oh wait, that's what you are.

Coffee boy looks a little lost at your motherfucking eloquent response, and you don't blame him. Stupid high clown.

"It's just, you looked a little, um, annoyed back there," he starts uncertainly, and your eyes unintentionally narrow. His eyes take the opposite path, widening in worry. "I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that! They were being really, uh, mean, so I think I would have been annoyed in your position as well, um... sorry."

Goddamn, you want to squish this motherfucker's cute little cheeks.

"Nah man, don't apologise," you grin lazily, despite the fiery hammering of your heart and fear that you'll sound like a complete douchebag motherfucker. "You ain't gotten anything to be sorry for - you're the first motherfucker that ever came up and made an effort with me, you know? And thanks for the coffee, my bro - they were some sweet little beans that went into that brew and I'd be happy to finish it," you finish lazily, grabbing the warm cardboard cup from his outstretched hand.

He gives a hesitant smile as he shuffles bashfully, and the red flowering in his cheeks reminds you of your best mate's red-as-fuck eyes.

"Oh! but Karbo's also a mate - motherfuckin' bro's got his helping on," you correct yourself with a mumble, because even though your angry bro's not here you still don't wanna forget him. That's not what bros do.

Because you're still kinda high as fuck, you kind of miss the flash of recognition in your coffee kid's caramel eyes, but you certainly don't miss the fervent way he replies.

"Uh, that sounds kind of familiar... Oh! Um, do you mean Karkat? Karkat Vantas?"

Wait...

What the motherfuckin' motherfuck?

"Uhhh..." your voice does that dopey stoner thing again, and you give a hasty cough. "You know motherfucking Karbro?"

His smile is full now. "Yeah, we, um, know each other from college! We met in the canteen; he, uh, picked up my drinks carton when i dropped it... and I helped him with his, um, coursework once or twice..."

Your mind is reeling with this miraculous slice of informative cake. Of course! Karkat and coffee boy knew each other from college. You'd actually signed up for that shit once upon an educated time, but the class times were fuckin' confusing and since the new meds your focus capability hasn't been too... well... focused. Now, however, you're seriously regretting it.

"Karbo's my motherfuckin roommate, my little brother! That is some freaky coincidence shit right there - miracles," you state proudly. His eyes widen further, and you take a sweet moment to up and zone out while your vision embeds itself into the bright ring of his caramel iris - aw man, now you sound like _Shakespeare_ or some shit. Crazy. It's only then that you realise your little coffee bro's been talking to you for the past ten seconds. Damn.

"...But he's never mentioned a roommate, so I'm afraid I didn't hear about you," he finishes, and you nod like you know exactly what the fuck he's been saying.

"Uhh... Yeah."

You try to listen as he rambles on. Really, you do. But it's so hard to concentrate on a motherfucker when there's the beginnings of this ringing, nagging sharp sense filling your skull. It's a familiar feeling, and although it was simmering on the surface back in the cafe, you managed to repress it. Now, however, it's made a stinging return, and it's telling you to wake up and smell the miracles...

Fuck, you really need to take your meds _now_. But coffee boy's still there, and you can't leave an adorable bro hanging.

"...Or is that weird?" he finishes his rambling, and you feel like such a jerk right now.

"Uhh... nope, there ain't nothin' weird about that... thing you were all up and sayin'! But, uh, look, motherfucker, I really need to get going," you say hastily, and you wince at his crestfallen expression, "but maybe we can exchange detai- wait, do you have a pesterlog account?"

You can tell he's struggling to keep up with your messy train of thought, but he gives a shy nod anyway.

"Yeah, it's, um, adiosToreador. Don't laugh," he mumbles, and your eyes light up as you try and restrain the crazy clown fun time bubbling in your mind. Focus on the coffee boy, Gamzee.

"That's a motherfuckin' awesome name, bro! Ok my friend, I'll be all up and messaging you tonight - how's that shit sound?" And you're already running away, already trying to keep the lid shut on your sanity jar before you do something you'll regret, and you barely hear his small cry of "but I don't know your pesterlog name! How will I know it's you?" because you're too hyped, too crazy-shit-clown-gonna-wreck-some-motherfucker-now to comprehend it.

And it's only once you're in the flat, downing too much medication but being too far gone to care, once you've settled down on the faded dusty sofa and are inhaling smoke like it's your life source -  
That you realise you don't even know the kid's name.  
...

Well, motherfuck.


End file.
